


(you are) a call to motion

by lady_romanov



Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, First Time, Gentle Sex, Geraskier Week, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Omega Jaskier | Dandelion, Outdoor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Scent Kink, Shameless Smut, Smut, Tender Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22800466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_romanov/pseuds/lady_romanov
Summary: It happens on the third day of their hunt.They’re on the trail of some beast that’s been terrorizing the local village and stealing away their children in the night, and despite Geralt’s express wishes, Jaskier insisted on accompanying him after the unknown monster because, “We might be the very first to discover the beast, Geralt, think of how legendary that will be!”“Technically,” Geralt had answered, “the first people to discover the beast would have been those it ate,” but Jaskier had merely pouted at him just so, and Geralt had found himself unable to deny his companionship.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: rare and sweet as cherry wine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645501
Comments: 52
Kudos: 2040





	(you are) a call to motion

**Author's Note:**

> Me three days ago: I'm never going to write an A/B/O fic.
> 
> Me tonight: Wait, fuck. 
> 
> I have no idea where this came from, and it's undoubtedly the filthiest thing I've ever written. No idea where this takes place in the timeline. No beta, if there's any glaring mistakes please let me know and I'll fix them. 
> 
> Title from Hozier's "Movement"

It happens on the third day of their hunt.

They’re on the trail of some beast that’s been terrorizing the local village and stealing away their children in the night, and despite Geralt’s express wishes, Jaskier insisted on accompanying him after the unknown monster because, “We might be the very first to discover the beast, Geralt, think of how legendary that will be!”

“Technically,” Geralt had answered, “the first people to discover the beast would have been those it _ate_ ,” but Jaskier had merely pouted at him just so, and Geralt had found himself unable to deny his companionship.

A decision he’s rapidly coming to regret, as he returns to their campsite after hours of futilely searching the surrounding woods and finding nothing, and catches a whiff off of the bard where’s he’s already tucked into his bedroll beside a meager fire. It isn’t strong, but it’s there: sweet, sugary, and warm, like a fresh apple tart right out of the oven, glazed and buttery and rich, melting on his tongue and sinfully good and -

He stops dead in his tracks. “ _Jaskier_ ,” he growls.

The bard flushes and shifts in his bedroll, the movement sending out a fresh wave of his scent, and Geralt feels his gut clench, heat rolling through his veins. “I know,” the bard groans, “I know. _Fuck_. I swear, I had no idea this would happen, I’m never this early.”

Geralt inhales deeply in an attempt to assuage his anger, and immediately regrets it when he gets another whiff of sweet-hot-rich pheromones from the Omega. He clenches his fists at his side and furiously tries to will his body not to react; as a Witcher, his Alpha instincts aren’t as controlling as they are to humans, but it’s been a very long time since he’s been around an omega in heat, and Jaskier smells _good_.

Too good.

“Do you have any idea,” he grounds out, “what you could attract, smelling like that?”

Jaskier winces. “I know,” because Geralt had specifically warned him of such dangers, “I _know_.” Then the bard makes a move to get up, unfolding himself from the bedroll and standing up, and Geralt has to hold his breath in an effort to ignore his instincts screaming out that there’s a fertile Omega who needs him. “Look,” the bard says, “I’ll just – I’ll go back to the town and try and find an Alpha who can help me. I’ve enough coin for a brothel if there’s nothing else.”

Geralt has to resist the urge to snarl at the idea of another Alpha touching the bard, and then briefly fantasizes about impaling himself on his own sword; Jaskier is not his Omega, and he is not that kind of asshole Alpha. “No,” he hears himself say, “it’s too dangerous to go back at night, especially with you smelling like _that_. Stay here tonight, and I’ll make sure you get back safely by tomorrow night.” He pauses, then asks warily, “Can you make it that long?”

Jaskier eyes him. “Yes,” he says slowly. “I’m only in pre-heat. Shouldn’t spike until tomorrow night.”

Geralt nods sharply. “Then stay.” The words burn in the back of his throat: _Stay with me_. He ignores them.

Jaskier just continues staring at him for a moment before sighing and shrugging, dropping his bedroll back onto the forest floor and falling gracelessly atop it. “Not getting eaten sounds like a fine enough plan, dear Witcher, if you’ll put up with me for another night.”

Geralt just grunts, walking over to his own pack and retrieving his own bedroll, making a space for himself as far from Jaskier as possible in the overgrown shrubs around them. He keeps his back to the bard, but it does nothing; his Witcher senses are impossible to ignore on a good day, let alone during a hunt when he’s automatically on edge for danger; Jaskier’s pheromones are all but screaming at him, and he feels hot beneath his leathers even in the cool night air.

He lays with his back to Jaskier, but he can still hear the bard tossing and turning as he tries to get comfortable.

“Goodnight, Geralt,” Jaskier says quietly.

Geralt doesn’t reply.

It’s going to be a long night.

x

By the end of the first hour, Geralt knows they’ve made a mistake.

“Bard,” he growls, “can’t you _do something_?”

“Oh yeah,” Jaskier snaps back. “like I hadn’t thought of _that_ before. Melitele’s tits, Geralt, do you think I’m _enjoying_ this?”

Geralt grinds his teeth together as he tries desperately not to scent the air; Jaskier’s heat scent has been growing steadily stronger as they both lay in the dark, wide fucking awake, and Geralt may not have much experience with Omegas in heat, but he’s fairly certain it shouldn’t be happening this fast – at this rate, Jaskier’ll be lucky to make it to dawn before his heat spikes, let alone until tomorrow night. Beneath his bedroll, Geralt’s cock is aching and hard, and it’s taking all of his control not to give in and wrap a hand around himself to provide some kind of relief.

Another hour ticks by so slowly and miserably Geralt feels as though he’s being tortured; worse, tortured by his own body.

He can _taste_ Jaskier in the air, the Omega’s heat scent burrowing beneath his skin like a fever, every breath bringing with it a fresh wave of tormented desire, his cock aching to knot. Every time Jaskier rubs his legs together, Geralt can tell exactly how wet the bard is just by the slick sound his skin makes as he moves.

Dawn is very far away.

At the end of the third hour, he hears the undeniable sound of Jaskier taking himself in hand, the whisper of skin on skin, the hitch of his breath; the scent grows headier in the air, and the inside of Geralt’s cheeks are raw from how hard he’s been biting at them to keep from moaning. He still has his back to the bard, but Geralt’s ears pick up every shivering sigh and the sound of him fucking into his own touch, and Geralt just about loses his fucking mind every time Jaskier’s breath catches.

Giving up, he slides his hand into his pants and wraps it around his painfully hard cock, hissing through clenched teeth as a flash of heat jolts through his spine, stroking himself slowly, rubbing his thumb across the head and gripping himself just on this side of too hard, pain-pleasure causing his blood to boil and his back to arch; he finds himself matching Jaskier’s rhythm without thinking, stroking himself in time with Jaskier’s breathy moans that are growing steadily louder as the Omega loses control, both of them wordlessly abandoning the pretext of pretending this isn’t happening.

After hours of waiting, he doesn’t last long. Behind him, Jaskier comes messy and loud in the quiet of the night, and Geralt groans as he comes with him, spilling hot over his hand and probably ruining his fucking bedroll.

Just when he’s starting to come down from it and thinking that’ll be it, Jaskier moans out “ _Geralt_ ,” behind him in a fucked-out voice, and every muscle in Geralt’s body stiffens at once, his spent cock twitching in his slick hand.

It’s painfully quiet for a moment, nothing but the rustle of leaves on leaves in the canopy above them, and Geralt doesn’t even fucking breathe as they both take in what just happened.

He hears the bard whisper, “ _Fuck_ ,” very quietly, and he finds himself turning over against his own volition; it’s dark, even with the meager light of the full moon shining through the trees, but Geralt’s Witcher eyes can make out Jaskier just fine.

The bard looks – he looks _well-fucked_ , that’s what he looks like, his eyes huge and dark in his face, his cheeks flushed, lips parted and glistening from his tongue sweeping across them every few seconds as he nervously stares back at Geralt the best he can in the dark. He swallows loudly, and Geralt doesn’t need his mutant senses to know that the Omega still has his hand on his cock.

“Bard,” he rasps.

Jaskier shivers. “ _Alpha_ ,” he moans, and nothing, not a single song or prayer or moan in the entire world has ever sounded so beautiful to Geralt’s ears.

“Bard,” he says again, voice going even deeper as his Alpha voice comes out, and he sees the way Jaskier’s whole body shudders in response to the single word, and Geralt is completely hard again already.

Slowly, he sits up. “Jaskier,” he says, low and quiet. “Jaskier,” and he thinks he likes the way the bard’s name sounds in his Alpha voice, rumbling like thunder as it slides from his mouth, “Do you want me to – ”

Jaskier gasps out, “ _Yes_ ,” and the word’s barely out of his mouth before Geralt is moving to him, making it across the small clearing in a flash, ripping the bard’s bedroll clean down the center so he can fold his body over Jaskier’s, clashing their mouths together in a hungry kiss as Jaskier cries out into his mouth when their bare cocks rub together.

Geralt lets his hands roam the Omega’s body for only a moment before he pulls away, ignoring Jaskier’s whine, as he tugs on the bard’s clothes. Jaskier gets the message quickly, helping him divest of his shirt and pants until he’s fully bare in the moonlight, and Geralt leans back in on his knees where he’s kneeling between the bard’s legs.

There isn’t a song Geralt knows that could do Jaskier’s beauty justice. He’s long and lean and pale, his nipples a sweet pink flush of color, sparse hair growing over his chest; he has gorgeously wide hips and there's thicker hair leading a trail from his bellybutton to his cock, which is flushed and hard, curving against his belly and leaking as Jaskier lays there beneath him, breathing heavily and staring up at him.

Geralt runs both hands down the bard’s chest, pressing his scent into his skin. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, reverent.

Jaskier closes his eyes as a shiver runs through him. “Alpha,” he breathes, and Geralt groans low at the back of his throat and reaches up to cup the bard’s face and draw him into a long, searing kiss. One of Jaskier’s hands comes up to grab a fistful of Geralt’s hair and tugs, and Geralt growls against the Omega’s mouth, biting gently at his lower lip; Jaskier’s other hand falls against his chest and starts tugging at the laces of Geralt’s shirt, and Geralt pulls back only enough to rip it off and toss it behind him before he’s stretching his body over the bard’s once more.

Jaskier moans, “ _Geralt_ ,” and tugs on his hair again, his free hand reaching down to grab Geralt’s ass and squeeze, and Geralt rolls their hips together, both moaning at the friction, and Geralt can feel how wet the bard is, his slick and his come letting them slide together easily. “ _Fuck_ ,” Jaskier gasps into his mouth, writhing against him. “Fuck, Geralt, Alpha, _please_.”

Geralt kisses him one more time before pulling off. “Roll over,” he says, and Jaskier moans wordlessly as he complies.

Geralt takes a moment to admire the smooth expanse of Jaskier’s back before leaning down and sucking a bruising kiss against the side of the bard’s throat, and Jaskier cries out loud and sharp when he grazes his teeth where a bond bite would go; he won’t bite the bard, not tonight, not when he’s not coherent enough to give full consent to something as meaningful as a bond, but he can tease them both with the idea of it, can slide his tongue against the bard’s scent glands and inhale his taste, can rub himself against the Omega until he smells like a heady mixture of them both.

Geralt licks his way down Jaskier’s spine, moving down the bard’s body until he’s kneeling between his ankles. His hands come up to frame the Omega’s round ass, and he lets himself bite gently at one of the pale curves of his ass cheek – Jaskier hisses “ _Geralt_!” and Geralt smothers a chuckle against the bard’s skin – before parting his cheeks.

Geralt can’t stop the moan that spills from him as he takes in the sight of Jaskier’s perfect, pink hole; he’s absolutely soaking, slick dripping down his balls and filling the air with the sweet, mouth-watering scent, and Geralt takes a moment to himself to think that no matter what he’ll do in all of his life, he could never come close to deserving this.

He licks and sucks at the skin around Jaskier’s hole, teasing, feeling the bard’s thigh muscles tense as he sucks lightly on one of his balls. “Geralt,” Jaskier half-moans, half-pleads.

“Shh,” Geralt murmurs, “I’ve got you, little lark,” and then puts his mouth to better use.

Jaskier _sobs_ when his tongue breaches his hole, and Geralt moans as his slick fills his mouth, the entire world narrowing down until only Jaskier’s taste and scent exist, the bard writhing on his tongue the only important thing in the universe, the body between his hands the only real thing there is.

Geralt takes his time, fucking his tongue in and out steadily, greedily taking everything Jaskier gives as the bard rocks back against his face, moaning incoherently and trembling. Jaskier lets out a keening cry every time Geralt swipes his tongue across his hole before plunging it back in him, so he keeps doing it, and it doesn’t take long before the bard is shaking in his grasp and gasping out, “Geralt, I, oh, I,” as he gets closer and closer. Geralt takes it all, his hands encouraging the bard to ride his tongue as fast and hard as he wants, and when Jaskier comes it’s with a high, reedy cry, his whole body quaking like a leaf in a storm, his hole fluttering around Geralt’s tongue as the Witcher works him through it, slick gushing down his chin. 

Jaskier goes limp beneath him as he comes down from it, his head resting on his forearms, his hair plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. Geralt runs reverent hands up and down his spine, massaging the bard’s ass as he gives him time to recover. When the Omega finally stills beneath him, Geralt grips his hips gently and squeezes once before rolling over. “Turn over, little lark,” he says softly, and Jaskier whines a little as he complies, body slow in his post-orgasmic haze.

He’s already half-hard again, his heat not letting his body rest, and Jaskier makes a sharp, punched-out noise when Geralt wraps his hands around his cock and strokes him to hardness. “Geralt,” he says, barely a whisper, his hands coming up to rest against the Alpha’s chest, and Geralt uses his free hand to take one of the bard’s and move it so it’s pressed over his heart instead, so that the bard can feel how fast it’s beating; how off-kilter the bard has made him. Jaskier’s hips move slowly as he fucks into Geralt’s hand, and Geralt says, “That’s it, that’s it,” barely aware of what he’s even saying.

After a few moments of just barely touching like this, Jaskier’s bruise-dark eyes slide shut and he says, voice a low rasp, “Geralt,” and this time it isn’t even a plea, not really, but Geralt understands all the same, moving his hands to grasp the bard’s thighs and spread them wider so that Geralt can lay between his legs, and Jaskier's breath hitches as the tip of Geralt’s cock presses against his hole.

Geralt pushes inside of him in one smooth thrust, and Jaskier throws his head back and cries out, “Oh _gods_ ,” and Geralt nearly echoes the statement, pressing his face into the bard’s throat and breathing in his scent as he starts to move. He fucks him in a slow, set pace, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in with a sharp snap of his hips, and Jaskier shakes and shakes as his legs come up and wrap around Geralt’s waist, one of the bard’s hands tugging at his hair and the other scraping his blunt nails down Geralt’s back and making the Witcher moan, low and graceless, his hips moving faster as Jaskier rocks against him to meet this thrusts.

“Geralt,” Jaskier moans, “Oh, _Geralt_ ,” and uses the grip he has in the Witcher’s hair to tug him down into another kiss, this one less searing and more like kindling, something warm sparking between the two of them, and Geralt shivers in the bard’s arms, licking into his mouth and gripping his hips hard enough to bruise, but Jaskier doesn’t seem to mind, just moans and arches his back so his cock rubs against Geralt’s stomach.

His thrusts start to grow erratic as he gets closer, the wet heat of the Omega too good around his cock, and both of them are beyond words at this point and so instead trade messy, wet kisses, Geralt sucking marks along the bard’s jawline and down his throat and biting gently along his collarbone and Jaskier just keens, pulling his hair so hard Geralt nearly whimpers at how good it feels.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, shaking, “oh, oh, oh,” and suddenly he’s coming, clenching around Geralt so hard the Alpha’s vision greys at the edge as he thrusts once, twice, before coming with him, his knot sliding into place as Jaskier clenches and pulses around him and splashes his seed, warm, between their stomachs.

Geralt wants, badly, to collapse on top of the bard, but he has the wherewithal to slide his hands beneath Jaskier’s body and roll them both over gently, the bard letting out a little hiccupping noise as he tightens around his knot, coming to a stop so that Geralt is lying on his back in the mess he made of the Omega’s bedroll and the Omega himself is a sweaty weight against his chest, Jaskier’s face pressed into his throat, his knot still firmly inside of him.

He’s not sure how long they lay there like that in the quiet, coolness of the night, waiting for his knot to go down. Geralt almost wishes that it wouldn’t, almost wishes that they could stay like this for a while longer so he can keep running his hands up and down the bard’s back and can keep feeling the absent-minded, open-mouthed kisses Jaskier presses against his neck and chest; Geralt is only vaguely aware that he's practically purring, a low rumble of pleasure as the scent of a contented, well-fucked Omega fills him up. Eventually it does subside, though, and when it does, Jaskier quietly rolls off of him, only to come to a stop next to him and immediately tuck himself against the Witcher’s side.

“So,” Jaskier says, and Geralt would have startled at his voice suddenly breaking the silence if it wasn’t for his training, “that was certainly something.”

Geralt says, “It was,” and then, “Don’t you _dare_ write a fucking song about this, bard.”

He feels Jaskier smirk against his chest. “Oh, I won’t. I can’t have every Omega swooning over you like they would if they heard me serenade your knot.”

Geralt very nearly _preens_ , shoving down the urge to roll them over and take the Omega again, to fill him up good and proper and _keep him_ there until he never wants another Alpha's knot again. He settles for raising an eyebrow, even though Jaskier can’t see it from where he’s laying with his head on the Geralt's chest. “You can’t?” he asks, deliberately casual. 

Jaskier turns his head so that Geralt can no longer feel his mouth against his skin, but he knows the bard is smiling as he says, “Oh no. I intend to keep you to myself, White Wolf.”

Geralt exhales. He’s fairly certain he’s felt more emotion in the past few hours than he has since he became a Witcher, but then, Jaskier has always been good at bringing out the humanness that still lurks inside him somewhere.

“Hmm,” Geralt says eventually. “I suppose I can live with that.”

He likes the way it sounds like a promise. 

(They do eventually make it back to town a few days later, the monster’s head in hand to trade for coin, and the mayor of the town, once he catches the lingering heat-scent that Jaskier’s still giving off, gives the bard a sympathetic look and says. “I wouldn’t have sent you into the woods if I’d known you had your heat coming up.”

Jaskier just smiles blithely and says, “It’s alright, good sir. We had it covered.”)

**Author's Note:**

> Why does my brain only want to write from the hours of 12am to 4 am. Why.
> 
> Edit: I've made this into a series, with at least one more fic planned but several other ideas floating around for possible future fics as well. I am currently about half way through writing the sequel, and hope to post it as soon as possible. Thank you for the wonderful response this fic has had so far, so much more than I ever expected! 💖💖


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